


Mission Operations

by Chaifootsteps



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Praise Kink, War Table Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-13 00:12:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7130363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaifootsteps/pseuds/Chaifootsteps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dorian is a distraction, then a terrible enabler, and Mahanon invokes every name in the elven pantheon.  Inappropriate use of the war table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mission Operations

Say what you would about his misdeeds in the past. Dorian could hardly have been blamed for this one.

True, he may have held…well,  _slightly_ less than noble intentions when he came calling on his work-weary partner, stealing up behind him and kissing his ears in that way he loved so very, very, _very_ much. But really, he’d had every honest expectation that things would only progress so far. A sloppy kissing session that ran just a little too long, maybe some roaming hands…at the _most_ , a hurried blowjob in front of the window.

Innocent things. Things the Chantry would smile upon.

If he copped to any crime, he supposed he _may_ have made the mistake of lingering just a _bit_ too long on Mahanon’s left ear. Nibbled just a smidge too precisely near the pointed tip, tracing with his tongue and allowing his warm breath to fan the damp, shining patch of skin. Too many correct things at once, so to speak.

But no. At the end of the day, this had been all Mahanon’s idea.

“ _Fenedhis_ ,” the Inquisitor had pleaded, stumbled over some magic tipping point. “Here, the war table _. Now._ Please. _”_

“Are you quite certain of that, Amatus?” Dorian had asked unnecessarily. And then, tracing helpful circles around the peaked tip of his lover’s nipple…“Just think of the _scandal_ …”

Mahanon had pulled him in closer by the half unfastened belts of his garment, blue eyes fuckably dusky.

“Hang scandal.  _Take me on it_.”

And that was how the leader of Thedas’s most powerful organization came to be bent over at the waist, absurd blue coat pushed up high around his ribcage so that the knobs of his spine gleamed in the lamplight (Dorian had made explicitly certain to kiss every one on the way down). Shoulders shuddered, nails scrabbled at the Ferelden border whenever the right spot was hit, and though he could bite his lip all he liked in an effort not to screech into oblivion, the wet, slick sounds of Dorian’s cock pounding into him left no illusions.

It was by far the filthiest thing they’d ever done and they both knew it.

“My word…” Dorian purred into his ear, just a little breathless. “Seems like  _someone_ needed this.”

The smile Mahanon shot back at him was approaching glazed, like he could not for the life of him imagine a time when he _hadn’t_ needed this.

“ _Ahh_ …feels like I’m _nnn…_ not the only one.”

Dorian concurred with a chuckle and a kiss laid on the back of his neck.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” he whispered, voice a devious rumble. “Every time you attend a meeting, every time they pull you out of bed to discuss tactics…” He held tight to slim hips, tugging them back to meet his thrusts. Unable to brace himself properly, Mahanon could do little save whimper. “Every time Cullen prattles on and your mind can’t help but wander…”

“Oh… _oh._..”

“Back to this very moment. Straight back to me inside you, fucking you completely senseless.”

“ _Yes…ah, y-yes…_ ”

“Look at you. The most important person in the south…the one the Chantry likes to _think_ it has a claim to…but you’re twelve steps ahead of them, a cleverer leader than that, and you’ll do exactly as you will, won’t you?” Mahanon’s entire body rippled at the praise he would never dream of offering himself. “Oh, if they could see you now…taking every last inch of me on your own terms…”

_“Mythal enaste, Dorian!”_

It was times like these when Dorian dwelled merrily on his title of Mahanon’s first and only lover. He had been there for that awkward, breathy, tentative voice asking him if this was alright, if this was how he liked it…he got to be here now, for the sound of that same voice choking out the words  _“pala em”_. Every now and then, whispering his name like it was the only thing holding back the sky.

When Mahanon worked a hand low to toy with the dripping head of his cock, Dorian knew it was only a matter of time.

“ _Oh…oh,_ ** _Sylaise_! **_Wait_ …wait, stop! Dorian! Stop for a moment.”

Though the sweat was rolling down his back in silver beads and his own climax was building faster than he could keep his eye on it, Dorian did. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, yes it’s fine. It’s just…I mean…” He was flushed all the way down to his shoulder blades, which meant that if it wasn’t something terribly bad, it was probably going to be good. And sure enough – “…I’m poised to cum on the Marches.”

If he hadn’t been looking back imploringly while he said it, Dorian would have sworn he was kidding. True that if it had been Qarinus, he likely would have made the same request, but _still.  
_

Ultimately, he gave the only response a sensible person could have been expected to.

“…Can you aim for Antiva?”

Mahanon managed to chuckle.

“It’s not on the map, so it’d be very impressive if I could.”

“Shame.”

Thinking as critically as he could while penetrated to the hilt, the Inquisitor glanced about.

“…But if we inch down a ways, I can try for northern Orlais.”

“Have I mentioned lately that I adore you?”

They distangled just long enough to take up position a half a foot down the table. If there was a prettier sight than Mahanon presenting himself like a cat in heat over expensive cartography, Dorian had yet to find it.

“Better?” he asked, sinking deep into soft, tight, welcoming warmth. The Inquisitor shivered happily.

“ _Much_.”

With Mahanon’s childhood home well out of the firing range, they were free to hold nothing back. This time it was Dorian’s hand that dipped low, dragging precum up the shaft and across the slit, rendering his lover _gloriously_ inarticulate. The sound of those high, breathy gasps, the ones announcing to anyone above or below them just how hard his prostate was being hammered and just how skillfully his cock was being manipulated… _Maker,_ but they were music to his ears.

It didn’t take all of a minute before the elf was tugging his free arm close, tangling fingers, but also employing it as a makeshift gag to smother his cries. Dorian got the signal loud and clear.

“Come for me, Amatus. You know you want to.”

A frantic nod, a tremor of oil-slick thighs, and the proverbial tether snapped, Mahanon screaming his name into the meat of his bicep. And that was all it took. The climax that had been breathing down Dorian’s shoulder hit him hard, forcing a curse he didn’t even bother to bite back. By the time he considered that finishing inside his lover may not have been welcome at that particular time, he was already spilling over into him. Fortunately, Mahanon didn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

The afterglow rolled over them in cozy, lapping waves, and Dorian bravely sacrificed a trouser leg to wipe off the ejaculate that had _not_ landed on the miniature denizens of War Table Orlais, thank you very much. Mahanon remained stretched out beneath him, boneless and blissful; when Dorian nuzzled the damp hair at the back of his neck, the eyes closed in cool satisfaction opened just a crack.

“ _Creators_ …that was…”

“Undoubtedly.”

“We are filthy, filthy… _filthy_ individuals.”

“Mmm,” Dorian hummed in affirmation. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Their fingers had yet to separate, and Dorian felt Mahanon sigh against them when he slipped free at last. While a mirror wasn’t exactly handy, he was certain they looked for all the world like they’d been having impromptu sex on top of the war table. Maker preserve them if they ran into anyone between here and the baths.

Ah, but that fell under the umbrella of _consequences_. Consequences Dorian could and would worry about the moment Mahanon began to.

Read: a time when the Inquisitor was _not_ turning around ever so gingerly, trying to avoid leaking on anything politically significant as he leaned up to kiss him lazily.

“You’re a wonder, _Vhenan_ …the only one I ever want to do that with…” 

“I quite like how syrupy you get after desecrating important workspaces,” Dorian replied, tracing the gentlest of lines across the places where his hands had gripped and bruised. His heart giving a rather silly, yet totally familiar little flip. “It’s hopelessly endearing.”

“Well…now that you mention it, I _have_ had an idle thought or two about the throne…” He cleared his throat. “And the vault… _andthegardens_ …”

Dorian was all ears.


End file.
